


Big spoopy fan, me

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, The bookshop, Very light adult themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: Prompt fill filets for Racketghost's 13 days of halloween prompt list.Humorous coitus interruptus and bickering take place, as well as freaked out snakes and stalwart angels.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 48
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. The semi-sentience of celestial posessions

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [MarisFerasi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi) in the [13_Days_of_Halloween](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/13_Days_of_Halloween) collection. 



> **Prompt:** ghosts
> 
> I have never done one of these but I want to try. 
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale's misadventures over racket's "13 days of halloween" prompts. Most probably at least a little NSFW/explicit/mature, knowing me.

"Do you hear something?" 

" _Will_ you focus?" Aziraphale huffed, long-suffering. 

Crowley listens for another second and returns his face between pillowy thighs with a grunt of dismissal. 

A moment later, a clatter has his head popping up again. 

"Seriously, _what the fuck_?" 

"It's that thrice-damned _ghost_ just-- finish the job, dear, and I'll introduce you." Aziraphale catches his forelock and tugs at it demandingly.

"A _ghost_?" Crowley absolutely does _not_ squeak and jump up to all fours, forgetting that his task is left- well.

Throbbing. 

"Crowley. You are a literal demon as old as time. Are you seriously afraid of a wandering spirit?" Aziraphale props up onto his elbows with an annoyed huff and glares glaringly. 

Crowley grumbles but he recenters over Aziraphale and sucks the angel's cock back into his mouth, getting back to the rhythm that had the angel's toes curling over his shoulders moments ago. 

"Oh, Crowl-- _yes_ , my dear, oh!" He catches a fistful of red hair and yanks, rocking against the tempo Crowley has set and then-- 

"He likes a finger run up here," a disembodied voice elects, the vague notion of a blue figure over Crowley's shoulder and the demon is hurtling away, shrieking. 

"Oh, you _spoilsport_ , Dani, _go away_!" Aziraphale lobs a pillow at the spectre and she dissolves with a shrug. Crowley, backed flat against the wall behind the bed, slides down to his rump and buries his face in his bony kneecaps.

"Look, angel. I can't suck your cock in an audience. Tell her to bugger off, or let's go to mine." 

"Oh good hea-- she's a _medieval_ ghost Crowley, she's been here since before the foundations were formed for Soho! Just ignore her while she flits about!"

"Nuh-uh." 

Erection flagging, Aziraphale works up a righteous strop and yanks his trousers up. 

"Dani!" He shouts into the flat, fists clenched. Crowley watches with a sort of awe as the spirit forms in the doorway, a bored expression on her face. "As much as I have appreciated your guidance on the matters of sex in the past, Crowley is a singular subject and must be left alone. If you interfere again, I shall have to ferry you along to your reward." 

The ghost straightens at once and falters, embarrassed. "Right-o, sir. I'll leave him to it, then." She disappears and does not return, though Crowley is still on edge. 

"There now dear. Can we continue?" 

"Dunno angel. If she pops up again I may doscorporate." 

"Nonsense, you strong, resilient demon. You'll be the one to ferry her along if she returns in the thick of things again." 

Somewhere in the shop the shelves straighten themselves in apology, and the man-shaped beings upstairs do not have to reap any souls that night. 


	2. Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bones
> 
> Crowley cracks a joke, wearily explains syntax and 1980s slang to Aziraphale, and they discover...some bones.

Aziraphale is reading in their smallish library in the window seat. He has a mug of cocoa to one side and the window cracked on the other, letting in the cool autumnal breeze. It is October, one year after the armageddon-that-didn't, and he is enjoying his new life with Crowley. 

And all the admittedly weird things that wily demon gets up to. 

Now, it is no surprise to any consumer that Crowley is a dork. He glues coins to sidewalks, tries far too hard to be "cool", and often makes jokes that only amuse himself (or occasionally a doting angel. If he understands the content, of course). So yes, even an angel who lives a century behind the times can readily admit that his fallen sweetie is a bit of a joke, himself. 

So when Crowley saunters into the library in a leather chest harness, garter and stockings, and the most miniscule knickers possibly crafted (topped with a pointed witch hat) two weeks before All Hallow's Eve, Aziraphale assumes (rightly) they are playing a bedroom game. He sets his book aside with a playful smile and folds his hands in his lap with a little wriggle of delight.

"Oooh, okay, I'll guess. Are you being a slutty witch for Halloween?" 

Crowley's face falls a bit from the smirk he had carefully etched across those fine cheekbones. "What? N-no. Shaddup, let me say my line, angel!" He absolutely does not stomp one stocking'd foot.

"Right, go ahead then." 

Crowley shoots the angel an exasperated look and reconfigures his artful sprawl against the doorjamb. "Wanna _bone_ , angel?" He twirls a plastic lawn skeleton's bone at a befuddled Aziraphale and winks salaciously. 

"Bone?" 

"Eurgh. _Yes_ , Aziraphale. Bone. Bang? _Fuck_? Do the _do_? It's slang." Crowley's shoulder droop in frustration. He should have known better; role playing never works. One of them always has too many questions. 

"Oh! Oh. Well, I see now." Aziraphale stands and straightens his cardigan in a fussy gesture of anticipation. Crowley is still frowning slightly, morphing it into a proper pout. "Does that phrase come from the sorts of animals who have a bone in their penis?" 

"What th- I _don't know!"_ Crowley squeals, backpedaling into the wall.

Aziraphale comes slowly closer, eyes on his prey. He very suddenly comes to the conclusion that playing dumb will rile the demon up further, and that sounds like the best possible outcome for this minor misunderstanding of colloquialisms.

"How many _bones_ do you think you'll need to be satiated, my sweet?" 

"Fucking-- uh. I don't-- _mmrff._ " 

"Several?" Aziraphale pretends to put serious thought into this for a moment, even frowning down at where their pelvises are mashed together, pinning the demon to the wall. The angel fingers the handle holds on the leather harness criss-crossing Crowley's narrow torso in a pentagram. His other hand slides down to shift the seamless edge of thong at the dip of bony hip and explore a little of the smooth skin underneath.

Crowley's chest hitches on a whine. "Y-ngh. Yeah angel, probably several bones." He gives up, lets Aziraphale snicker into his mouth on a kiss. 

Much later, wrung out on the sofa, Crowley stirs awake on the angel's pillowy chest from a question vibrating in his ear.

"How many bones does the human body have, dearest?" 

"Dunno angel. Two-hundred something, I think?" 

"Sounds like a goal to me. We have a bit more than a week til Hallow's Eve, after all." 

Crowley swallows, suddenly very awake, indeed.

 _Ngk_.


	3. Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale catches Crowley doing something suspicious in a graveyard
> 
> (Someone did very similar to the ligur/hastur rough plot i had going so I scrambled to do something else and we got...this)

A loud, resounding _fwump_ breaks the silence of the night. Crowley curses under his breath and shoves once more, this time bracing his weight so he doesn't faceplant again. 

"What the deuce are you doing?" 

Crowley jolts up from his crouch, having just rolled something heavy and man-shaped into a deep grave. 

Well...fuck. 

He hadn't expected Aziraphale to show up out of nowhere, three hours away by Bentley, in a darkened, non-consecrated graveyard. The demon paints an air of superiority about his shoulders and stands, brushing caked mud of his knees and shins. "Could ask you the same, angel." 

Aziraphale gives Crowley an unimpressed eye and comes a bit closer, tugs carefully at his waistcoat, glances around for signs as to why his lover had disappeared into the night from a nice warm cuddle. "Well I know you're not _lurking,_ so don't give me that tosh. I half expected you to still be asleep after earlier." 

Ah, well. There is the crux of the matter. 

Earlier, Crowley had done a parlor trick of his which Aziraphale greatly loves, and that is why he is here, disposing of... _evidence_. 

"What in hea- _Crowley_! What is that!" Aziraphale points immediately to a shock of copper hair hastily covered by wet earth. 

"Shit." 

" _CROWLEY_." 

"Look, angel. You wanted _four_ this time and-- well. Mine come from the firmament, not like yours. They have to _go somewhere_." 

"So you're just disposing of your duplicates?! In a _human_ graveyard!?" 

"I mean, they're bodies. Yeah?" Crowley snaps at a pile of dirt and it shifts to fill in the deep pit behind him, housing two fresh demonic duplicates that had dropped lifeless as soon as they had come in or on or near Aziraphale earlier.

Said angel buries a thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets and heaves the sigh of the heavily burdened. "You mean to tell me that after you duplicate yourself to have sex with me, they die and then you have to _get rid of the bodies_?" 

Crowley fidgets, bites his lip. Nods. 

"Have you even _tried_ telling them that they have to disappear when they are _finished_? That's what I do." 

"Oh." _Oh_. "Like a Mister Meeseeks?" 

Aziraphale growls a little and steps closer. "You know full well I do not know what that is. But if it disapparates after use, then yes. Like a Mister Meeseeks." 

Crowley grins like he's figured something out and finishes burying the half-covered body. They link arms and walk back to the Bentley and Crowley lets Aziraphale in before coming round to seat himself behind the steering wheel. 

"At least you picked a de-consecrated site." 

"Yeah, had to do a bit of trial- and- error for that one. They kept catching fire. And, well. Then I had a hellfire-filled hole to deal with." Crowley glances sideways at the angel and forces an anxious smile. "Not a pretty sight, that, and me dancing beside the grave because I couldn't stand still on blessed ground. Had more than a few priests try to exorcise me since we started playing with this little game, as a result." 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley a moment as if trying to decide if he's fibbing and then settles on the fact that he probably isn't. "Just drive, dear," he sighs. 


	4. Vampires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale bicker over some costume choices in bed.

"I van to shuck your blood," Crowley says in a low voice, pitched with a terrible accent. 

"Oh, are you finally hungr-- wait, you _what_?" Aziraphale asks, baffled. He turns from the bookshelf in their little library at their new seaside cottage and blinks at his husband. 

Crowley has come across the hall from the bedroom in a black fitted tuxedo with a cape that brushes his ankles and is lined red on the inside with a tall, stiff collar. His normally snakeskin boots are polished black leather and (to the angel's dismay) his recently-grown hair has been brushed and pressed flat backward onto his head with a glossy gel that leaves it looking wet and dark, emphasizing a sharp widow's peak. 

"Oh fome om an'el, I'm pre'y obvioush'ere."

"Halloween is not for another week." 

"Sssho? Has'hat ever shtopped ush from'a shpot of dresh-up?" He clicks the plastic teeth menacingly, lips curling to expose them. Across the room, one white eyebrow slides slowly up towards a fluffy white hairline. 

"I suppose you're right," Aziraphale concedes, thinking back to his most recent insistence on role play that involved a dashing young gamekeeper and a buxom lady-in-waiting. Trellises had been built and a wisteria coaxed up it in a matter of hours just so Crowley could climb up it and into the second floor window. He had even been forced into a poet shirt and breeches. 

Crowley prowls playfully closer, heels clicking as he moves deliberately in the shadows with his face half-hidden by the cape stretched over his forearm. 

"Reshishtansh is usheless," he hisses, pinning the angel against the bookshelf and mantling them both with his cape.

"Oh, you are an idiot," Aziraphale demures, swatting at a narrow thigh as it insinuates between its plump targets. He ends up with two hands full of narrow back side, to no one's dismay. Crowley drags the tips of the plastic play teeth down one of the angel's collarbones and the stupid things nearly fall out, making the demon move a hand to catch them (and try not to laugh). 

"Take them out you _wretched thing_ ," Aziraphale giggles, batting at the demon's grinning face as he leers closer. The damnable things glow in the dark a hideous green. 

"Oh, fome on, an-hel. D'ere not fo bad!" Crowley laughs again outright, spitting out the plastic vampire teeth. Aziraphale wipes tears from his eyes and tugs Crowley down for a kiss not that his mouth is unoccupied. 

"Really now, the tux and cape and slicked-back hair were enough to give you away, you silly old serpent." The angel lets Crowley tip his chin up, mouth descending over the pale folds of his neck. "And your can- _oh_. Can do your own fangs anyway." 

"That I can," Crowley pitches the toy over his shoulder and moves to clasp Aziraphale around the back of his head. "Shall i?" 

"Oh, I do believe you are meant to be a vampire, dear. Otherwise what's the point of all this?" Aziraphale teases, melting into the demon's touch like a sun-warmed caramel. 

"Very well," Crowley concedes, sprouting two fine little points on his eye teeth. "Where were we?" 

"I do believe you were meant to be sucking something of mine?" Aziraphale bids helpfully. 


	5. Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets captured by humans and Aziraphale has to help him escape.

"Y'can't be serious."

"Three trials shall be done to test if this supposedly immortal, unwed, _wretch_ be a _witch_. This accused beast has already failed one such test! If she fails the next two, she shall be burned at the stake as a _confirmed_ witch!" The witchunter riled up the crowd with a few short lines, leering menacingly at a bound and gagged Crowley where she stood lashed to a pillar in the town square. 

"Gotta be fucking kidding me," Crowley groused behind the tight fabric gag in her mouth. She had previously decided to wait until the crowd dispersed before miracling her way out of the ropes, but it had been _hours_. The stupid human- hunter had been drawing in crowds to gawp at Crowley all day! 

The brute in the ugly tall buckle hat had taken her smoked lenses and dark overdress, so the crowd was mostly shocked at her eyes and (forced) lack of "common decency" in naught but a thin chemise. At this angle with her arms tied taut overhead, surely the neckline was gaping, showing a distressing (to the humans) lack of secondary genitals.

The traitorous human to turn her in had been an elderly neighbor (who Crowley had actually thought would be dead by now before the demon changed gender and moved back into the old cottage) who had recognized her from his childhood. 

Crowley had smiled at the old man as he passed and continued misting a wisteria and then later, shouting erupted as her first _actual_ home was invaded. The rest had all been quite the blur as the demon had been dragged out of her cottage by a crowd and thrown into the lake for a swimming test. 

"Bloody ridiculous," she muttered again, hands flexing against the desire to knock this crowd out and make her escape. _Patience_ , Aziraphale would say. Bloody angel and his _bloody virtues_. If her mouth had been free, Crowley would have spat. 

Presently, the witchfinder decided to get on with the trials.

 _Great_. 

"The second test is finding a devil's mark!" The hunter declared, taking a knife to Crowley's tattered chemise, peering and groping quite unnecessarily. She almost manifested a cock just to startle the lad, but settled for the clear discomfort he was having looking her in the eye and over her strangely straight-pin body. 

Just as the witchfinder lifted her hair to check her neckline, she felt him stiffen. He'd found the snake on her jaw. If the eyes hadn't clued him in, the snake mark would surely mark her second failed test. 

As long as she passed the third, she could out doubt in their minds and make her escape. Fucking witchcraft was rarely an actual problem for her, but this was proving to be an exception. 

"Behold! A mark of the beast! The devil's mistress has a serpent marked upon her face, and snake eyes to match!" The hunter gripped her face and showed her off to the crowd, riling up their jeers. 

Crowley grimaced at the "devil's mistress" bit more than anything else though. 

_Gross_. 

"Your final test, witch, is to hold this crucifix and say the Lord's Prayer." Crowley's eyes dropped open and she tensed against the wooden beam. The man pressed the leather ties to a crucifix necklace into her hand and held it until, with a twist of pain, Crowley held it herself. "Speak the words, or there will only be more tests, whore. I _will_ find a third to fail you." 

Crowley seriously considered the likelihood of transforming into a serpent and slithering away. The crowd was thick, she'd likely not get far... and frankly it would further imbed the fear of witches and possibly make the rampant witch hunting even worse. 

At the thought of the required words for the trial, Crowley's throat burned. She fisted her hands in her binds, belly clenching with fear for the first time that entire, terrible day. 

And then-- a tuft of white moved among the crowd. Just a blink, a whisper of comraderie and a sprinkle of hope, and then it was gone again. Crowley couldn't be sure she'd actually seen him, but the bolt of hope that splintered through her spoke volumes. 

"What have we here, good sir?" The crowd parted and there stood Aziraphale in spotless creams and whites even as he stood in the mud and horse shit. He spared a cursory glance over Crowley's undressed and bound form and Crowley could swear she saw his jaw clench. To an untrained eye (that is, someone who hadn't been watching and documenting Aziraphale's facial tics for over 5000 years) he simply seemed quizzical. 

"We are in the process of _testing a witch_ , gentle sir. She stands accused of immortality and spurning courtship." 

"Oh. So clearly she's mad and deserves to be condemned to brutality and certain death because she doesn't want to marry any of the _obviously very classy_ gentlemen here," Aziraphale said wryly.

Several of the men stared at the ground, abashed. Crowley kicked at the witchfinder still gripping her hair painfully and earned a backhand across her face, but he backed away to speak closer to the angel. 

"I say-" 

"Take. Her. Down." 

"Excuse me? And who are _you_ , to interrupt _my investigation_?" The hunter bucked up, puffing out his chest.

Aziraphale simply stared at the man and flexed his jaw a bit. "Crowley, close your eyes, my dear." 

Crowley, certain of what was about to happen, obeyed. 

A flash of white lit behind her eyelids. The shine of angelic power still singed along her exposed skin. 

A cool hand landed on the demon's face, wiping her hair back and smudging tears from her cheeks. "Come now, dear girl. You'll be alright. Just a simple error in judgment." He eased the gag out and cut the ropes holding her wrists overhead.

Crowley collapsed, muscles quivering after several hours of uncomfortable restraint. Aziraphale bore her weight and picked her up in a bridal carry and walked to her cottage.

The humans had quite forgotten why they'd gathered in the town square, except that now there was a nude man raving in the stocks, calling himself a witchfinder in their rather witchless town. He went largely ignored, and the people went about their day. 

The neighbor felt quite compelled to ignore the existence of his ginger female neighbor who looked so like that young lad who must have been her grandfather, who'd owned the cottage in his youth. 

"Shall I say thank you?" Crowley asked, laid out on her bed and resting. Aziraphale wrapped her raw wrists with herbs and cloths soaked in healing tonic and laid them on her belly. He patted at a scratch on her calf and another on her neck with more of the same. 

"Better not. You save me often enough, it was only a matter of time before you needed help." Aziraphale fidgeted on the stool beside her bed. "And God knows we have plenty of that." 


	6. Costumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley teases Aziraphale a bit on his choice of costume and then gets utterly wrecked because of his own.

"What the 'eaven is that?" Crowley frowned at the angel, a little furrow between his eyebrows. 

Aziraphale primps his costume, turning one way and then the other. "I'm a pumpkin," he says, like nothing is wrong with that idea at all. He's in a shapeless foamy contraption that may look like a pumpkin when laid flat, but on and upright it looks like a deflated orange beach ball with black spots. The green hat on his head looks more like an unfortunate cock than a stem, and Crowley says as much. 

"Oh, you!" Aziraphale huffs, straightening the thing. It looks worse now. Aziraphale flaps a hand at the demon and complains, "what on earth are you supposed to be, then?" 

Crowley preened and turned in a circle, hands on his hips. "I'm obviously a sexy nun." 

"My dear that's just a general nun's habit. It's not short or low cut or anything." 

"Well I rather thought the sexy bit was inherent to me being the one in the costume," Crowley groused, pouting now. He crossed his arms and turned away. "I'll go change then, shall I?" 

"You'll do _no such thing_. Come here," Aziraphale said. Crowley came there, still pouting. "Of course _you're_ the sexy thing. But the sexy part of the _outfit_ is that you're not wearing knickers, _isn't it_?" Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow with more commandment than question hidden in the hairs. 

Crowley swallowed. His knickers disappeared. 

"Of course it is, angel." 

"Well then. We've a party to get to!" The angel clapped with glee and strutted his amorphous self out the bookshop door. Crowley was helpless to follow, cheeks a bit pink. 


	7. Bonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale's first camping adventure!  
> Noises in the dark! Werewolves?! Attempted sex in a tent! Humor and bickering! It's cold, make a bonfire already!

"Crowl-"

"Angel, _move_!" 

"I'm _trying_ , you idiot!" 

"Fucking- _ow_!" 

"No, it goes in _that_ hole!"

"That's what-"

"I swear to you if you say 'that's what she said' I _will go home_." Aziraphale growled at his demonic partner and shoved the support rod of the tent in the sleeve meant for it and stood the whole (damnable!) thing up. They should have really got a camper; money was no object, after all. But this seemed more authentic (and they both remembered sleeping in tents as the norm when humanity was first getting its land-legs, so to speak) and authenticity in their experiences was the name of the game now that they had the freedom to do as they liked. 

It would be _fine_. 

It would also, apparently, be _very fucking cold_. 

The sun had no sooner set than Crowley was miracling up a fire, shivering in his puffer coat and "destroyed" skinny jeans (and possibly not wearing actual shoes as he was wont to do) like a city-dwelling idiot instead of a cryptid being as old as time which _should have known_ to pack thicker trousers and warmer boots. Aziraphale looked at him doubtfully and thickened the demon's clothing with a minor miracle. 

Crowley grumbled about being "just fine" and sat on the ground by the fire. "Few more branches, we'd have a proper bonfire here, angel." 

Aziraphale bundled Crowley against him and leaned back on a fallen log, basking in the orange glow of their steadily-warming campsite. 

"'S'nice, being outside and with you," the demon mused, bare eyes staring up at the black expanse of sky above them studded with the dying remains of some of his stars.

No one was watching anymore.

"Yes," said the angel. "I know exactly what you mean." 

They were quiet another moment. A log cracked in the fire and sparks flew up on tiny wisps of wind. Crowley inhaled, pressing his scapulae into Aziraphale's chest.

"Could get a bit wild with it, you know? Fuck outdoors." 

" _Crowley_." Aziraphale huffed, scandalized. 

"What? Not like we haven't done it everywhere else except the garden," Crowley giggled, allowing Aziraphale to hold him a bit tighter. He snuggled back, tucking his head under a few chins. "Whats the difference between _out here_ and the chaise longue in the orangerie? Except a pane of green glass? Either way, my tongue's still liable to be in you ar--" 

Aziraphale sucked his teeth and prodded the demon sharply. "I didn't say no."

Crowley twisted his neck to peer up at him. All he saw was a good deal of mirth dancing in those eyes alongside the flames. 

"You're right, angel. You didn't say no." 

"Well then," the angel said, shimmying like he did when he was pleased. 

"Temptation accomplished?" 

Aziraphale looked down at him then, filled to the brim with love. 

In the end, the fire kept them quite warm, despite the chill outside their simple canvas tent. 


	8. Ouija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets weirded out when he messes with a Ouija board he finds stuffed in an old wooden crate under a pile of books in the bookshop. Aziraphale just wants crêpes.

Aziraphale, after everything, was _famished_. 

"Well. Thank you for all that effort my dear. We worked up quite the appetite!" he slapped Crowley playfully on his bare belly and sat up off the plush rug in the back of the bookshop. The demon remained in his starfished position, staring up at the water stains on the ceiling. 

"Just leave me 'ere, angel. Can't move."

"Oh, you dramatic thing. Get up, let's go get strawberry and hazelnut spread crepes in Paris. You can take us through the chunnel, I know how you love revisiting that job of yours." Aziraphale straightens and buttons up his shirt and waistcoat, searching for the crumpled heap of his trousers and one sock (complete with garter) under the chair. Crowley rolls toward him with a groan, curling around one thick thigh. 

"Mmmrfff." 

"Really, now. I'm going to wash up and make a cuppa and you'd _best_ be ready to go by the time it's done steeping."

Crowley knew better than to keep his angel from whatever meal he desired. A cranky Aziraphale was not on the docket for tonight, so he'd better comply. He still pouts and waits in a tired, sticky heap until Aziraphale has trundled upstairs and water is going in the absurd, pink, frilly loo up there that looks like someone's great-gran's estate sale threw up in there. 

"Better get up," Crowley huffs to himself, rolling onto his side and pushing up. in doing so, he notices an ancient wooden crate under a stack of books behind the chesterfield he's been lounging on for two centuries. It wouldn't normally be suspect (just another squashed, forgotten crate of the angel's, stuffed away out of sight and far, far out of mind), except that the demon catches a distinct whiff of darkness that he would normally attribute to himself. Only now... now he smells more like _Aziraphale_ and his own human- made cologne than anything of Hell. 

Crowley quirks an eyebrow and snaps, pulling the box to himself without dislodging the pile on top of it too much. The stack falls to the floor in a soft _fwump_ and a cloud of dust. He coughs and waves the dust away, opening the box to find a summoning kit, complete with black candles, tarot cards, a brass bowl and jars of herbs and tiny skulls, and even an old Ouija board and planchette. "What the 'eaven is this?" Crowley whispers to himself, digging in the box a bit further. He pulls out the board and planchette and thinks he'll set the whole thing up, derail Aziraphale's little jaunt for food with a fun prank or so. Maybe drag a poltergeist into the bookshop and coerce it into organizing the angel's books in some semblance of proper order. 

Aziraphale would _hate it_. 

Crowley snorts, bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and sets the board out on the floor between his naked knees and puts his fingers to the planchette. He thinks of ghosts á la Casper and Scooby Doo and lets the board do it's thing. 

_Hello_ , it says. 

Crowley stares at the plank of wood with more than a sprinkling of trepidation. (He tends to forget that he's eons old and quite difficult to kill. Or that miracling silly things like ghosts _gone_ is a thing). 

The planchette keeps moving. 

N-I-C-E-W-O-R-K-Y-O-U-D-I-D-B-A-C-K-T-H-E-R-E

Crowley swallows past the alarmed squeal caught in his throat. 

"D--Dani?" 

The planchette moves back to _Hello_. 

I-s-e-e-y-o-u-t-o-o-k-m-y-a-d-v-i-c-e

Crowley smirks a little. "Yeah, well. Seemed like the natural progression of things, okay. _Thanks_. Look, while we're out, can you help me with a prank?" 

The wooden triangle moves to OK. 

"Nice one. Help me reorganize the books. Dewey Decimal, if you can. Or something resembling basic sense. An anniversary prank, if you will." 

Dani leaves the planchette on OK. 

"Do you--erm. Want anything while we're out?" 

B-A-T-T-E-R-I-E-S

"Oh, right cos the-- the thing is dead." He sighs, thinking about the rabbit toy upstairs which is always mysteriously dead. 

Mystery solved, then.

"Ok, will do. Ta!" Crowley puts the board away but secrets the box to another, more accessible locale. 

He has a ghost in his pocket who knows quite a lot of secrets, and a way of messaging her can only be useful. 

Crowley snaps and is clean and clothed. He goes to make Aziraphale's tea while the angel towels off, expecting a nice return when they get home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this garbage instead of doing MBA: HR mgmt homework :)


	9. Posession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame Tracy's take on the act of possession, and how it led to an angel accepting the offer to stay at his secret beloved's flat after the scariest afternoon (thus far) of their lives.

In all, Madame Tracy did not mind being possessed by an angel as much as she thought she would. 

Afyer all, she had _pretended_ to be possessed or to have spirits talk through her for decades, and it felt, in a word, _freeing_ to have gotten her act fairly right most of that time. 

(That last seance with the dead husband had been a bit _extra_ , though. Aziraphale explained later that he had given the spirit a little extra _oomph_ of righteous fury to get the wife silenced and the seance closed up tidily.)

So yes, in all, it was not such a _chore_ to have an angel parading around in her skin as she thought it might have been. Aziraphale was quite a gentleman, if a little frantic (which was to be understood, mere hours from Armageddon and missing your partner). They had given Mister Shadwell quite the scare, if his continued steady silence was anything to go on. 

So the scooter had flown and that hadsome demon chap had blown up his car ( _Crowley_ , the name rang around in her head like Christmas bells. And _my goodness,_ this angel turned to him like a sunflower to the sun, didn't he). 

So yes, her body had pivoted sharply at the sound of Queen echoing around the air base and she had felt the angel's swell of relief (and more than a little bit of _heartache and pining_ ) when that flaming antique car had come to a stop.

The tall, dark, ginger fellow she had seen in Aziraphale's thoughts near constantly in the last few hours got out of the car and came forward, complimenting her dress, and had cheekily leant in with a "you leave him to _me_ ," leaving little doubt to those around exactly what the relationship was between them.

That demon, if that's what he was (that's what Aziraphale said he was, anyway) was more than used to getting this angel inside her body out of sticky situations. 

And this appeared to be the stickies of them all! 

So yes, her (also unrequited!) Helpless rage railed against the veritable wet blanket of unrequited longing and anxiety that the angel wore like monks' robes. She could practically smell it off the demon as well (though that might have been a celestial sense being funneled through her very human nose). 

If the angel could sense this much love and anguish, and felt it himself, why had they never gotten together? Surely if she could see it through the filter of him hogging her senses, he couldn't be blind to it?

Well. He wasn't going to any longer. Not if she had something to say about it. And he was in her body, dammit, he was going to have to listen for the time being! 

In a moment of quiet between moments of panic, Tracy prodded the angel's existence pushing up against her own, inside, and asked. 

_Not now_! He hissed back, walking to the cluster of children and singling the one they called _the antichrist_ out. 

Shooting a small boy had _not_ been part of the posession deal, however, so she put an end to that. Underestimating her strength and tenacity had been shortsighted on the part of the angel, if his shock at her prevention was anything to go on. 

She gave him one last kick in the metaphorical pants to _get a move on_ with the demon, just in case they were all killed in a matter of minutes. 

_Go over and kiss him, you great dolt!_

_My lady, I think that's hardly a polite thing to do._ He frittered about, taking too long to decide, yet again.

And then Adam had split them back into two bodies. 

Aziraphale gave her a meaningful look over his shoulder, and the rest was in his hands. 

If he could still read her thoughts, he didn't show it, but she made sure to keep eyes on how badly Crowley wanted to touch him- hug him even- after all was said and done. In an effort to convey it to him, mind you. Not to be nosey. 

She doesn't like to brag about that day or anything, but from what she's heard through the grapevine of disturbed spirits, Aziraphale went home with Crowley that very night. 


	10. Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley inspires a legend, and Aziraphale teases him a little.

"Did you really inspire the legend of the Loch Ness Monster?" Aziraphale asks dotingly, petting down the smooth scales of his beloved. Crowley had decided to stretch out and then coil up into a lovely armchair-sized pile of loops and- well. It was only a matter of time until the angel found himself sunk in the center of those coils bottom-firsr, three bottles deep and slurring. 

"Of courssse, angel. I had run off to Scotland to lay low for a while. And I jussss' decided, y'know, take a swim. And while I was out sssswimming one day someone ssscreamed and ssnapped a photo an', well... and here we are." 

"So you weren't even _menacing_ anyone?" 

"Course not. I was _trying_ to get away from the humanssss for a bit." 

"You silly serpent. You never could do much in the way of true evil, could you." 

"Nhhh," Crowley wheezed, tightening around Aziraphale as if he could squeeze the comments out and be done with them. 

"My good, kind, sweet demon. Being a nuisance is the worst you'd ever do." 

"Angel, ssstopppp," if snakes could blush Crowley's snakey cheeks would have matched his belly scales.

Aziraphale grinned and pressed on. "You deserve all the love I could possibly give, Crowley. You are the _only being that could_ _possibly_." 

"Ffffuck." 

Aziraphale smirks into the dregs of his final glass of Bordeaux (because the bottles are all _empty_ , not because he's _done_ ) and snorts out a soft little laugh. 

"I suppose that's one legend we can out to rest, then?" 

"Decsssidedly." Crowley flicks his tongue in the angel's ear and allows him to catch his snout and bring it closer for a kiss along the sensory pits. He can taste the wine and rather a lot of fondess (and a playful sort of arousal undercutting it all) and thinks (for the millionth time since they because _they_ ) that the two of them are rather a pair of complete idiots. And life has been long and arduous and lonely, yes... but it has been fun enough lately to make up for it. 

Crowley smiles inside (his snake mouth can't quite do that but he lets the glee seep out and infect his angel, wrapped tight in his coils). "Have i told you about the Axe Man of New Orleans?" 

"Oh, do tell," Aziraphale grins, and uncorks another bottle.


	11. Haunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale go house-hunting on the cliffs and find the perfect house.  
> Or is it a nightmare waiting to happen?

"I liked the brick on best," Crowley posits, thinking of the beautiful (if unkempt) garden and all the possibilities therein. 

Just think. Mutual blowjobs under apple trees in starlight. He goes a bit misty in the murky depths of his coffee thinking about it.

Aziraphale jolts him out of that train of thought with a fussy complaint. 

"Absolutely not, my dear. It was _haunted_." 

"Hau-- _pffbbttt_ ," Crowley exclaims, blowing air through his lips. "Like hell it was! Haunted, what a concept." He adds another sugar sachet (the sixth, if anyone is counting) to his coffee. 

"There were at least two distinct spirits inside, couldn't you feel them?" Aziraphale says back, picking a perfect ratio of buttercream and sponge off his plate.

Crowley glares at him from behind smoked lenses. He wants a bite of cake but won't ask. "No. And if there were then we bloody well _ferry them along_. 'S'not like it would be hard. Not for us." 

"Well yes but I'd feel bad if we invaded their home and kicked them out like that. I'd always _know_." 

"You want me to buy it and burst in there Ghostbusters style and send 'em packing down to hell is that it?" 

"Well not necessarily-- what is a Ghostbuster? Anyway, they might be good popel. They may not deserve to suddenly become homeless _and damned_ all in one evening, simply because we want their house." 

"Now i see why younnever got rid of bloody fucking Dani." Crowley frouses, drinks his coffee. He stares at the leaflets spread between them, the houses they'd seen with the realtor human. "Well then what's the solution, angel? Because I liked that one and didn't like the other two." He flicks them off the table and onto the ground for good measure. 

"Hm." Aziraphale eats and thinks, frowning into his cake. "What if we asked them to vacate to a shed on the property? Or to another location?" He says the latter at the knitting between ginger eyebrows. 

"Don't think ghosts work like that. It's the location that has them bound. Unfinished business and all that." 

"Well then I suppose there's nothing for it. If you do decide to purchase this property, then it will need to be vacated by its current tenant." 

"Right-o, angel. I'm on it." 

A week later, Crowley shoulders a duffel bag full of salt and a shovel and enters their new home. 

"Any ghosts still about?" He calls. "I'm a demon, name's Crowley. If you're eager for moving on to your reward i suggest you come out, or I'll be rooting you out the hard way!" 

He drops the bag and looks around, taking in the dusty old textiles and shag carpet that badly needs replacing. Preferably with sleek hardwood. 

Probably covered in plush rugs. 

Just as he's about to deploy the salt and dust the whole place with a thought, a spectre appears, and then a small child behind it. They are both young, both obviously poor and starved. They probably hid in here from the bombings in the Great War, if their clothing is anything to go on. And then they never came out. 

"Where are your mummy and da?" He asks, kneeling. The girl puffs up and answers, thinking she can menace him into leaving them alone. 

"Everyone's dead. You'll be too if you don't bugger off!" 

"What if I can get you back with them for good?" He says. They hesitate, look to one another, and nod sheepishly. "Everyone else must run away when you bang about, eh?" The girl nods again. 

"People try to take our house away, but we've been here for _ages_." Crowley nods sagely and sits back on his heels. 

"Where are your bodies?" He asks delicately.

They lead him to the back yard, to a hastily-dug shelter in the earth that never held up. There is the scrap of an artillery shell embedded in the rock wall and a sunk-in roof, and two small bodies curled beneath it all. 

"Alright you two. Give us a hand," Crowley reaches out and waits. 

The girl puts her tiny cold hand in his, and the boy too, and he finds their parents in the great vaults of souls in Heaven and Hell. 

They are in Hell. 

Of fucking course they are. 

"Do you want to be back with your mum and dad, or never want for anything again?" He asks, because that's as plainly as he can put this decision. 

In the end, he ferries them to Heaven, who will accept two small humans without much questioning. He burns the bodies with a gout of hellfire and turns back to the house. 

A small hand lettered wooden sign at the gate says "the Garden House" and he smiles. 

That sounds like _exactly_ the right place for them to retire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone's enjoyment i bring you Sugartooth Crowley from the book, a la Leslie Knope and her XL frappe with sugar and extra extra whip cream.


	12. Magic and Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try to figure out this thing between them and come to the same conclusion at different times.  
> It's just that most timeless, ineffable magic: love.  
> And then they boink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall i went full fuckin' sap on this one.
> 
> This day you get a twofer, because it's my mom's bday so I've been busy this weekend.

"I've been hexed. Or ssssomething," Crowley huffs, dropping down onto the bench next to the angel.

Aziraphale is flicking peas at ducks and frowning. " _Hexed_? Can _you_ be hexed?" He asks. 

Crowley shrugs, glaring out at the humans in the park milling around them like nothing world-changing at all is happening to one of the man-shaped beings on the bench. "Must be. Something's all... _wrong_." Christ, he can't even _look_ at the angel now without aching between the ribs and between the legs. More than usual, anyway.

That's going to be a massive problem; they've only got each other, anymore. 

"How do you mean, dear?" Aziraphale turns to him fully, alarmed now. "Is it... your former employers?" He glances at the humans surrounding them and back to Crowley. 

"Nah. No. Not their style. This is more... insidiously quiet. I just feel. _Off_?" 

"Well if you'd tell me how you feel then perhaps I can help. Being vague is getting nowhere." Aziraphale straightens in his seat and waits. Crowley will take the bait. 

"Look, it's. Fuck. Can we go back to the shop? Or to mine?" He implores, looking sideways at the angel. To him, Aziraphale appears to glow incandescent, a thing of immeasurable happiness and desire and Crowley wants him so badly his _teeth_ hurt. 

"Nnno. Nope. Nevermind. I'm-- ssssshit. I'm going." 

"Wait, what? _Crow_ \- now _really_!" Aziraphale exclaims, standing and trying to catch the demon by the sleeve. Crowley has never just up and bolted like that! Something must _actually_ be the matter. He watches Crowley and his improbably flexible hips sashay quickly away and is left standing awkwardly by the bench, dumbfounded. He sits. 

Some time later (he tends to lose patches of time when having A Think) the angel gets up again and decides to walk to Crowley's flat to figure this out. It's a short walk from St James' anyway. 

On his walk he wrings his hands and ponders what could _possibly_ be bothering Crowley so badly if Hell isn't involved. Heaven hasn't bothered Aziraphale since their trials after Armageddon, and he and Crowley check up on Adam often enough to know he is safe and still pretty normal, considering. 

Aziraphale can't deny that this connection vetween them has been... _palpable_ , in increasing viscosity, since they formed their own side and started considering themselves more freelance-retired than anything else. 

Aziraphale _knows_ he loves Crowley. He has never wanted to see him injured or in a bad way, always healing the demon when he needed it, or offering some free time when they were both feeling the burning ache of immortality in a passing, _dying_ world. Crowley has always been more emotional, more empathic on that end than the angel, but he understand those feelings it all the same. 

_This_ feeling isn't the way he feels about _anything else_ , not even his favorite foods. 

So. _Well_. If Crowley believes that feeling this way means he's _hexed_ then Aziraphale must be under the same magic spell. 

And there must be a ritual to shake it off, surely? 

But in the same breath he curses himself for the thought. Surely desiring to be out of the enchantment means that they don't want to feel this way any longer. Aziraphale _loves_ loving Crowley. Sometimes it is bothersome, like when he want to sleep and Aziraphale wants to try a new restaurant, or when Crowley wants to go out and make some grand gesture but Aziraphale just got in a new crate of books to go thru. 

But damn it all, it _works_. They fit together so well it's absurd at times to think they were ever supposed to be enemies. 

Aziraphale rides the lift to Crowley's floor and lets himself in to the right side door on the small landing. There are two doors here, but Aziraphale has never seen the other flat's occupant. He wonders vaguely if there even is one, or of the demon's wide-open floorplan has expanded into the other flat so much that it has disappeared. 

He goes into Crowley's sitting room and stares blankly at the dark telly mounted on the wall. He goes into the empty kitchen and sees the remnants of a coffee abandoned on the counter, undrunk. There is a neat pile of shining-fresh apples nearby in a metal, snake-woven fruit bowl. He wonders how ling they have been there or if they will ever be eaten. He moves to the plant room and stares at them pushing out their best leaves for perusal. 

There is a faint sound from the bedroom. He follows it. 

Crowley is curled up in bed, his face pressed to the pillow. He doesn't seem too surprised to see that Aziraphale followed him home. 

"Hey, angel." 

"Hello, my dear. I think I have a solution for us." 

"For the hexing?" Crowley rolls over and sits up, looking adorably rumpled in a soft tee. His eyes are wide. The blankets pool on his lap and his hair, grown since Armageddon, curls fitfully around his ears. 

"I don't believe it's a _bewitching_. Only a... spell of sorts. Maybe the most ancient sort there is." 

Crowley's brow crinkles, his yellow eyes alight with curiosity and confusion. "Wot." 

"You see. God put the apple tree in the center of the garden so that the _temptation_ was there the whole time. It was a _test_. Humanity failed. And I think we did, too." 

Crowley puzzles at this for a moment, and in that time Aziraphale only manages to think _dear God we are both idiots._

"My darling," he says softly, getting the demon's attention. He has never called Crowley that. Never crossed that line into sure affection. "We are one another's forbidden fruit. _We_ are the temptation for the other." 

"I can't-- angel this feeling is taking over. I want you so badly. In every way. It's-- i can't ignore it anymore. It used to be difficult, but I managed it. But it's always been there it's just... _more_ , now." 

"I understand, my love. I think we have both been substantially stupid this whole time. I love you dearly, Crowley. That's the only enchantment we're under. It's the oldest sort of magic there is." 

Crowley gapes at him for a moment, twisting the blankets in his hands.

He looks briefly like he might cry. Aziraphale can't stand it. 

The angel tips forward, catching Crowley's jaw in his hands on both sides. He tips the demon up and kisses him soundly, swallowing the exhale of sheer relief when Crowley melts against him and wraps long, gangly arms around his waist. 

"Surely there's, ah. Some sort of _ritual_ to be done?" Crowley breathes. "To fix this specific sort of ache? Y'know. Caused by the... the magic." He can't quite form the word _love_ just now, but Aziraphale knows it's there. 

"Oh," Aziraphale sighs, lighting up with a mischevious grin. "Yes, I'm certain there is." 

He is tugged onto the bed. Clothes are vanished with another thought from one of them or the other. 

Two celestial beings create quite a bit of the oldest sort of magic and perform the best rituals. 


End file.
